


From the Dust

by illegible



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A tiny break from my Angstquisitor, Gen, Humor, Non-Andrastrian Inquisitor Prompt, Non-Dalish Inquisitor Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 20:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12465344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: Inquisitor Cadash doesn't believe in any Maker, regardless of what others expect.





	From the Dust

It was funny at first.

Malika Cadash was not a particularly spiritual dwarf, never had been. Born topside she’d gotten into a habit of paying respect to the Stone more from upbringing than “she is our Mother and we must honor her” bullcrap. Czidol, a fellow Carta member she’d fooled around with once or twice, claimed she’d practically given him a religious experience with her eyes though. Gray, pure, the steadiest thing he knew. She’d smacked him in front of the boys for that one, called him nugbrained or nugfaced or some-like. Only good for a fuck in the dark. All the color ended up in her hair, which was red, which she kept tied out of the way but still wound up chewing in moments of distraction. Czidol would probably try to say it looked "molten" or some garbage. It was just red, a little stringy, framing a surprisingly delicate face.

Anyway though, no big deal at first.

“Herald of Andraste” this, “Maker’s Chosen” that. Holy Inquisitor to the Chantry of Lady Fireknickers. Fine for a snort or an eyeroll. Sure, okay. If you say so. Every ritual she performed, every honor she accepted came with a healthy dose of irony. 

Or “excessive mockery,” as Josephine put it. “Do not try it in Orlais, they’ll notice.”

Malika decided, privately, to show Josie exactly what a _Cadash_ considered excessive mockery the next time they were called to court. As a reference, to be helpful. To see what those ever-attentive Orlesians would do.

Didn’t take long for the schitck to get old though.

Occasional dirty glances from Cassandra. Weird, hurt expressions from Leliana. Mother Giselle not just looking down on her, but _crossing her arms_ while she did it. Like Malika was some petulant kid without manners.

Cadash swore by the Stone instead of the Maker, preferred sodding to flaming. Not like she’d taken a piss on their mothers’ ashes.

None of them seemed to think maybe Corypheus was telling the truth about their “seat of the Maker” being empty, either. Black city instead of a golden one, all dreams and Fade garbage. Didn’t seem so different to her from what those Avvar did with their spirit-worship. Least the Avvar were honest about it. Andrastrians kept parading her in front of devotees, chanting when arguments ran out because she wasn’t into their little “religion”.

Blightin’ _creepy_ , the whole thing.

And then she had to go down to help Orzammar of all places. Quakes and mine trouble, no sky and no temples. Just stalactites and paragon statues, the burble of underground rivers and screech of distant darkspawn. Foreign shit, but Malika’s come-to-the-Stone moment arrived with the beating heart of a Titan. Its lyrium-blue veins were enough to draw even topsiders into a song older and more primal than magic itself. Loads better than any passive-aggressive human prayer.

The Stone was fucking real, something you could see and touch and hear, something bigger than they ever imagined. But please oh please Inquisitor Cadash we need you to bless our heiress in the name of some sacred kindling.

Malika made a point, after that, of establishing a shrine to her ancestors at Skyhold. She got rid of the Andrastrian throne and all the hats she’d been hanging on it for something dwarven. Replaced the windows and the banners.

Josie seemed openly alarmed. Cassandra, Vivienne, and Leliana offered no comments in the most deliberate way possible. Dignitaries found reason to stop, to fumble, to wonder. “The Maker’s chosen?” they’d ask, stripped of guarantees and easy answers.

Who the dust knew, she could be. But Malika was definitely a child of the Stone, whatever that meant, and one in a long line of dwarven Carta vagrants. And Inquisitor Cadash was not sorry for it.


End file.
